More Than This
by bugsfic
Summary: A weekend cottage, two big city coppers, sexual tension...What could go wrong?
1. Chapter 1

_Spoilers: Set between S1 and 2_

_A/N: After watching the Keeley Hawes/Philip Glenister _River Cottage_ episode, I joked that it just screamed for a A2A AU, but in the end, I decided it could actually work as a canon fic. This is just a fluffy little smutfic to get used to the characters and *gulp* the language. My undying gratitude, through the grumbles, to aussiegirl41 for her assistance with British English. It's given me great respect for all the non-American writers trying to write in US universes._

* * *

"I don't know about planning a big jewellery heist," Alex said dryly, training her binoculars on the bedroom window across from her viewing spot. "The Mannings seem more concerned on setting the land speed record for the most shagging in an hour."

Gene leant over her shoulder, his breath warm on the tip of her ear. He focused his own glasses. "Easy enough to get the gold cup when yo'r a two minute man." He gave an indignant sniff.

Although she agreed, she wasn't going to concede the point. Anthony Manning's white ass bobbed up and down with a determined rhythm. Alex was grateful that they hadn't had time to install bugs yet. She said: "They've shagged four times—"

"Five," Gene corrected as he took a chair and pulled a form guide from his overcoat pocket.

"Five times since we've started surveillance and he hasn't gone down on her yet."

Gene glanced from his paper, showing a glimmer of interest. "So?"

"Just making note. Creating my profile—selfish pig. She's performed felatio twice," Alex pointed out.

"O' course she's been flashing him," he said, "I've seen more of this tart's bits and bobs today than I saw of the Missus in twenty years."

Alex glared over her shoulder. She could rarely tell if Gene was trying to wind her up or was truly that obtuse. But she said, "It means blow job," anyway, only to have a quick smirk flirt across his face. He had wanted to hear her say it, damn him.

"Maybe she's one of those women who doesn't like getting," he suggested, "prefers to give."

Alex faced Gene, hands on hips. Manning would take another minute before he would come. She raised an eyebrow, sharp as a scythe about to slash through wheat.

"Oh, one of _those_ women? Those women from the Penthouse letters?" She wiggled her fingers in quote marks as she said, "I never thought it would happen to me but my bird only wants to give me head all day long—"

Gene's Adam's apple slid up and down but he kept his gaze locked with hers. "What do you know about those letters?" he asked prudishly.

She rolled her eyes. Then that damn mouth of his formed its infuriatingly familiar pout, and she suddenly had the vision of grabbing that rumpled golden mane and pushing those petulant lips to—

With a snap of her shoulders, she whirled back to the window and raised the binoculars. Manning tossed his head, gave his mute yowl and dropped out of sight. Right on schedule.

"Saw a kettle in the kitchen." Gene rose and tucked away his paper. "Fancy a cuppa?"

"Thanks," she said grudgingly.

"Right," Gene said behind her. The door snicked closed.

With a sigh, Alex leant against the window frame and watched the plume of cigarette smoke gently waft from the Mannings' bedroom window. It had only been the day, but so far this particular assignment seemed to be a complete waste of time.

She hadn't been awake enough to give any sort of resistance when Gene had knocked her up—make that banged her up—at six in the morning.

"Oi! Bolly! Up and at 'em!" had been bellowed through her front door. Still faintly hungover, it had taken her an awful, pulled-from-tar slow minute to realise that it was still 1981, she was still in the flat over Luigi's, and her loud-mouthed lout of a Guv, as always, wanted something.

Clutching her thumping head—too much cheap red wine or her bullet wound?—she made her way to entry and cracked the door.

"Pack up yer knickers—" Gene peered at her. "Wot's wrong wit' you?"

"It's six."

"I'm up, ain't I?" he pointed out, thoughtless as always. "Get a bag loaded. We've got a couple of blaggers to stake out."

Holding the door open wider, she admitted him while scratching her back. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his head tilt to view the swath of skin revealed when her pyjama top rode up. Typical. All looking, not action. Understanding his motives and thoughts was like trying to untangled a ball of wool, but in other ways, he was a simple man. She tugged her top back down, keeping the tension in the fabric so it was taut over her untethered breasts. His gaze went soft and warm and pleased.

She folded her arms. "I need an overnight bag? For a stakeout?"

"We're out to the country for this gig. May take days. Need to be prepared."

"Outside of London? And our district?" she questioned, even as she padded back towards the bedroom. He followed, but stayed in the doorway. "Can we do that?"

"When said blaggers are from our patch, and just takin' a holiday to plan their next job, yes, we can." He moved to her dresser and started digging through a drawer.

"Excuse me!" she groused, grabbing the knickers from his hands. Looking them over, she sighed in exasperation and elbowed him out of her way to return the lace and satin pairs and select more practical ones. It was Gene's turn to sigh.

"You can wait on the couch." She tried to shoo him out but he ignored her. Incongruously, he started to straighten her bed, snapping the duvet tight.

"Wot?" he asked, seeing her puzzled expression.

"Thank you," was all she found to say, pushing a few things in the bag. She really didn't have the wardrobe for the country however, and brushing aside Gene's growls of protest, she went down the hall to Luigi's flat.

His wife Camilla was tall and lithe, a former fourth string film ingenue, vaguely in the style of Silvana Mangano, with sloe eyes and impossibly full lips. She never came down to the restaurant, spending all day in their flat to flip through back issues of _Intimita_ and smoke gold-tipped cigarettes. But they did weekend in Dorset occasionally and she would have a wardrobe that would fit Alex.

This time, Gene stayed in the doorway, obviously intimidated in the presence of such a beautiful woman. Alex explained her needs. Camilla led her to the bedroom and lazily selected a mac, a pair of rubber boots, and more practical jumpers than Alex's off the shoulder numbers.

"Finally," Gene grumbled as he'd tossed her bag in the Quattro's boot.

His motorway driving was just as terrifying as it was in the city, and she was still tired and a bit nauseous. Closing her eyes, she tried to catch a nap, but her mind started to race, as it always did. What would happen as they left London? Would they fall off the edge of the Earth? Was her fantasy world finite? They were going to Wiltshire. Had she been there? Did she have the imagery to create the scenes?

Gene fiddled with the radio dial as they lost their station, until he caught the first bars of _Over You_ and stopped.

"Why don't you play your music in the car, Gene?" she asked drowsily. "You hardly seem the Roxy Music type."

He grunted but didn't reply. She smelt burning tobacco as he lit a cigarette instead. Of course he listened to the music of her childhood. She couldn't hum a Jim Reeves song if she tried.

Very carefully, she dabbed the single tear that had eased through her closed eyelids.

But Gene must have seen it. "It'll be good for you to get away for a bit, Bolly," he said.

"You think?" She lolled her head but kept her eyes closed. Perhaps this was all a dream within a dream...

"You work too much. Getting to you. You're gonna crack up," he said kindly.

Cracked, as her mother's skull had been by the explosive heat, blackened down to the bone, that death grin leering at Alex through the blown-out windscreen. Her cheek twitched.

"You work just as much," she sniped, taking refuge in a sharp tongue.

"That's different. I'm the Guv."

She'd opened her eyes, letting him see them glistening and wet. "If I need a break, why have you brought me along? I could have taken things easy back at Fenchurch. Wouldn't you rather have Ray or Chris on this?"

He snorted. "Chris just natters on about Shaz, and Ray has a rum gut. Prone to indigestion."

She made a face, recalling the last time she was trapped in an enclosed space with Ray. If Gene had such issues, at least he stepped outside the Quattro to expel them, ignoring Ray's scoffing at his recently acquired courtesy. "I win by default?"

His glance lingered. "You got your good points."

As he drove, he told her the background of the case: Sharon and Anthony Manning, husband and wife jewel thieves. Sharon was sent in to case the jobs, being a pretty little tart with big tits, as Gene so eloquently put it. She'd chat up any shopgirls or flirt with the salesmen. Perhaps get into back offices to see the good stuff, or even the safe. Within a few days, the place would be cleaned out after hours. Gene believed they had a gang and were selling to international buyers. He didn't just want the Mannings, he wanted the whole lot.

He finished with: "I've gotten a cottage that's right next to the Mannings' place."

"What's our cover?" she asked.

"Cover?"

She looked him over. He was wearing his suit for Thursday; the dark grey. White shirt, already rumpled before their first tea break. His red, black, and grey striped tie; the one with the permanent pickle stain near that end. Hardly the attire for someone visiting the country. "It's obviously not holiday seekers."

"Why not?"

She sighed. "You couldn't even take the tie off?"

He bitched for a minute, then told her, "Go ahead; get rid of it then."

Shifting on the narrow bucket seat, Alex reached for his tie. As usual, the top button was undone and the knot loose. Slipping her finger between the tie and his shirt, she tugged. It had been a long time since she'd removed a tie from a man. Her most recent dates in her real life were more the Polo tee-shirt and cashmere jumper sort.

The silk length slid free easily. She kept her gaze firmly pinned on what she was doing, despite the warmth of Gene's breath on her temple. He kept his eyes on the road, but there was the slightest hitch to his chest when she tossed the tie into the backseat. She had to slide her fingers between the fabric and his throat to work his shirt's second button free. Trying to remember if she'd ever felt his bare skin before, she slowed her motions as she undid another button, then another...He'd been wearing a vest when she'd nestled under his arm in the vault. Now his chest was bare but the gold chain was still there. How 1970's of him...

"We're not going to a nudist colony," he said.

She jumped back to her side of the car. "Sorry."

"Another time," he said, but she only frowned.

There'd never be another time. He just teased—was there a male equivalent of a pricktease? If so, Gene Hunt was it. Not that she wanted to sleep with him, necessarily. He just kept her in a state of frustration with his remarks and pointed looks at her body. If he would at least make a try, then she could reject him and they could move onto the 'we're just friends' stage. She wasn't counting his suggestion they go up to her place after they'd had dinner. There was an uncomfortable sweetness in his tentativeness that warned her off. It would have been something different than a quick and dirty scratching of an itch, and that was the last thing she needed as she was about to save her parents' lives and leave this world.

Only she hadn't. She grimaced again. Should have just shagged Gene Hunt instead, apparently. Is that what some omnipotent being was trying to tell her?

As they left the motorway, the Quattro didn't fall off the earth but Alex remembered that she was prone to motion sickness on country roads. Gene couldn't drive with his usual speed and the slow, looping bends of the drive turned her green around the gills. She'd been grateful when he'd pulled into the narrow drive at a little thatched roof cottage.

"How charming," she'd exclaimed as she got out into the fine rain.

"It better have an indoor bog," Gene grumbled as he retrieved their bags. His cowboy boots squished in the mire but Alex already had her wellies on and led the way.

"Shit," he mumbled, bringing up the rear. "The things I do—"

"I am surprised you took this," she said, "I would expect you to fob this job off on the lads. Just not your sort of thing." Crossing the slate paved passage, she peered into the warren of tiny rooms, all soft plaster walls and low timbered ceilings. "It's lovely!"

"What, I can't do lovely?" He dropped their bags by the stairs.

She covered her gaffe. "Just would think that you could coordinate this operation from the station, that's all."

He had given one of his grumpy noises. "Somethings need the Guv," he had said, that gaze on her again, silver light in the dim passageway.

Gene shouldered through the door, carrying two full mugs of tea. When Alex turned from the window, she knocked her head on the low ceiling. This was to be his bedroom tonight; she had an equally tiny room across the landing, but at least it had a bigger bed.

"Damn." She clutched her forehead.

"_Charming_," he said with a sneer, handing her one of the mugs. "City banker wankers in their high-gloss waxed Limited Edition Land Rovers give a wad to sit in a pile o' rocks my Uncle Terry paid five bob a quarter rent on when he was his Nibs' cowman. For me, it's a dirty weekend at Blackpool, spent in a boozer and the clutches of a big-titted dumb-as-dirt Boots' salesgirl."

"Naturally," she drawled, blowing on the tea before drinking.

"Bet this is right up your track though. A spot of polo on the front lawn of the manor house with your old school chums—"

She furrowed her brow, but decided that setting him straight would only confirm his indictment of her as a toff.

"Actually, I haven't spent much time in the country. I'm a London girl, through and through. My parents would book holidays, but more often that not, a cas—work would come up and it would have to be cancelled. After they died, my godfather sent me on some country holidays, but they were those organised things at Girl Guide camps. We spent most of our time just melting toffees on the fire grate and braiding our hair." She smiled at the memory.

"Your parents died when you were a girl?"

She nodded and returned to the window. Anthony Manning had risen and was standing by his window, nude and scratching his balls. Lovely. She stepped back, out of his view and closer to Gene.

"And you were with your godfather?"

"Yes."

"Just like that little Alex Price. Maybe that's why you seem to be taking that case so rough."

Glancing at him, she pinned on a stiff smile. "'spose so." Her No Trespassing sign couldn't be any more obvious.

He stroked his throat with the back of his hand in that way that drove her mad; made her want to follow his fingers with her tongue. She returned to watching the Mannings' window. Sharon had joined her husband, wrapping her arms around his narrow torso and nibbling his shoulder.

Alex drained her tea, managing to find a few stray leaves that had escaped the bag, and sucked them on her tongue. The tannin was sharp, keeping her mind from feeling the crushing loneliness and need.

Gene put his mug aside. "I'm giving you the week, Bolly. Then you have to snap out of this."

"Snap out of what?"

Anthony and Sharon were kissing, hands grasping at breasts, arses, her hand coming between their bodies— Alex had to look at Gene instead.

He narrowed his eyes, intensifying the blue flame. She wasn't going to get out of this room without giving him what he wanted. Why was it that he never had to reveal any of his inner world, but she was expected to lay it all bare for him? Another unwelcome image, her lolling naked on that narrow cot that would be his bed tonight...

"You've been a moody thing ever since the Prices popped like Christmas crackers. Time for you to get over it—"

"I'm _not_ going to get over it! It will mark me for the rest of my life!"

"Maybe that's the problem." He lit a cigarette. "Me, I don't think about the past. Just gives you indigestion worse than Old El Paso chilli con carne. Only without puffing the darts." He added helpfully, "All bottled up."

"That's the answer. Just don't think about it," she sneered.

He shrugged. "Works for me."

Anthony had Sharon against the wall and the glass of the window was shaking from his thrusts. Alex checked her watch. "That's five."

"Six."

* * *

Exhaustion finally won out for the Mannings, and there'd been no movement from them in two hours. As Gene continued to make his selections in his form guide, Alex wandered to her room and unpacked, then completed her disguise.

"Wot the hell?" Gene said when she returned.

"I have removed my makeup, Gene. Live with it." She'd also brushed out her hair, loosening the curls from their tight ringlets held in place by scrunch spray.

He was suspicious. "Don't think you're going to get me in some disguise. Don't do 'em. Ever since I had to wear that bloody squirrel costume..." he muttered.

"What?" She asked, although she'd heard him clearly. She just wanted him to repeat it.

"Downward slide, Bolly. Next, you won't be wearing a girdle."

"I never wear a girdle!" she protested.

"Bloody hell, you're really that scrawny?" His outrage grew. "How's a bloke to keep a hold with no handlebars on the bike?"

"I'm just going to get skinnier without some food. Did you have any groceries brought in?"

"Groceries?"

"Food," she explained carefully. "If we're going to be here for days, we'll need food."

His puzzled expression told her everything—he only ate at Luigi's or corner cafes, got takeaway. The pile of paper wrappers under his desk, the odour of grease that emitted from the Quattro's glove box, was the flotsam of his dining.

He gave a nod of his head. "I'll pop over the road and get us some takeaway." He yanked his overcoat off the hook by the door. "Curry or Chinky?"

Wincing, she shook her head. "I don't think you're going to find anything open this late in Enford. It's gone six."

"Sure I will! Up on the high street! What sort of place doesn't have takeaway?"

He was gone three hours. Alex mined the cottage, gathering what limited reserves there were and was consuming stale onion hoops dipped in some past the expiration date tinned mango chutney whilst wistfully watching the Mannings prepare and consume their delicious-looking dinner.

When Gene finally returned, they gathered around the heavy oak farm table in the kitchen and ripped the lids off the containers. The lamb curry was stone cold, the fat congealing in globs, but they ate it gratefully.

"Had to drive all the way to bloody Reading!" grumbled Gene between bites.

"I told you," she said smugly.

He only shook his head. "How does anyone manage out here?"

"We'll have to get in some food tomorrow. Cook." She glanced at the hob dubiously.

Finished, Gene pushed away the container and settled back in his chair with a deep sigh of contentment. "Be nice to have some home cooking. Haven't had any since the Missus chucked her ring in me face on her way out the door."

Alex sat up taller. "You think that I shall be cooking?"

He raised his eyebrows.

"Well, I shan't. Plugging in that kettle is about the extent of my culinary skills," she said, pointing to the appliance on the worktop.

"But you were married! Have a kid!" His brow knit in confusion.

She folded her arms. "Yes."

"Wot? Your husband cooked?" he said as a way of a joke.

"Yes, he was much better at it than me," she said matter a factly.

He only shook his head as he pulled out his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket.

She challenged him with: "What?"

"I'd always figured that you'd keep your man's knob well and truly stuck in a honeypot-"

She watched him toy with his lighter, his chin in his chest. Those damn long lashes of his swept his cheeks. He'd thought about what she'd be like in a relationship, huh?

"I wouldn't describe it that way. We simply divided labour by who did it best."

"Until you gave him the heave ho? Decided his todger wasn't fulfilling the job requirements?" Gene looked up quickly, catching her staring. It was her turn to drop her gaze.

"Not exactly. It was he who found another option."

He choked on his smoke, exhaling a great puff. "Wot?" Shaking his head like a bear bothered by bees, he finally found speech. "Who the bloody hell did he pull? Fucking Julie Christie?"

For some reason, his defence of her charms brought tears to her eyes. "Thank you," she murmured. "That's very sweet."

"It's the truth!" he raved, still indignant.

She tugged at the baggy jumper that she wore. "I didn't always look like I do in London. Truly, I'm rather dull; this is more indicative of my usual dress."

"Bolly, there's one thing you are not, and this is dull." She was suddenly aware that her thick makeup had made for a very effective mask. His warm gaze picked out her freckles and fluttering eyelashes, the nip of her teeth on her pale lower lip. "You can be a chatterin' set o' wind up teeth, but you look good while you do it."

"She was younger. I was only twenty-two, and she was still younger. A student. He was her tutor."

"Perv," he ground out.

She collected their empty food containers and took them to the bin, moving out of the reach of his heat. "Well, she also wasn't wearing a maternity bra or had stretch marks or was nearly psychotic from lack of sleep. He left when our daughter was six months old."

"Poofter," Gene growled. "Little nancy boy not ready to face up to his responsibilities. Nothing to do with you."

Gripping her chair back, Alex leant on it to glare at him. "Were your affairs not about your wife?"

He blew out a stream of smoke. "What're you on about?"

"Perhaps I'm sensitive to the topic." Pulling out her chair, she sat again, crossing her legs tightly. "Sam said you were always willing to take what was offered by a woman." She narrowed her eyes at him. Except when it was her, of course.

He lit another cigarette from the one he was smoking. "It wasn't that sort of marriage."

"What sort?"

"Where you stay faithful."

"Did she know that?"

"She was grateful if I was only around for Sunday tea."

Before she could stop herself, Alex said tartly, "If I can deal with you day and night, why couldn't she?"

He didn't reply. His steady gaze was unnerving. She turned away and became fascinated by a long crack in the oak tabletop. There, she'd said it aloud. They might as well be married. He was the first person she saw in the morning, they dined together, and he was the one to whom she said goodnight before heading to bed. Alone. There was just one thing missing from this relationship and now she was more certain than ever that it was because he just wasn't interested. She was too skinny, too mouthy, too privileged. But from a man who'd eat the end of yesterday's bacon butty he found under his carseat, the rejection was particularly stinging.

"Right then," he said, rising quickly. The scrape of his chair's feet was loud on the slate floor. "I better get back to it."

"To it?" She shook her head to clear the fog.

"Watching the Mannings. The reason we're out here. Remember?"

"Oh right." She rubbed her hand over her eyes. She was so tired. Hadn't been sleeping...The nightmares.

"I'll take first watch. You can take over in a couple of hours."

"Thanks," she said dryly. "I best take to my bed then."

Surprisingly, she fell right to sleep, despite the lumpy mattress. Rain pattered on the thatched roof, sighing waves of water that lulled her right off. But the nightmares came again anyway.

The clown was in the bed with her, nestled close, holding her tight to his side. She tried to struggle, but her limbs were too numb to get free. He had _The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe_ open on his lap and read from it. His voice had once been so soothing, and now it was the sound of terror.

"Stop, stop!" she screamed. Finally able to move, she fought, thrashing against the twisted bedding and heavy quilt.

He was reaching for her, holding her in strong arms.

"NO!" Unable to strike out, she bit, her teeth sinking into warm skin.

"Ow, you dozy mare!" he snarled, but didn't let her go.

That woke her. "Gene," she gasped. "It's only you." Exhausted, she fell against his chest, panting for breath.

"Who else would it be?" His big palm cradled the back of her head. "An' you took a chomp right outta me. Good thing I'm up on me tetanus shot. Those prozzies bite too."

She found the wound and pressed her lips to it in the form of a healing kiss. Still dizzy and shaking with terror, it just seemed the right thing to do. She lay her palm over his heart; the beats were deep and true as they'd been on the first day that she had met him. It was so easy to believe he was real when she felt that rhythm. Or was it simpler to imagine that he was a figment that she could shag with no repercussions?

"What's that about?" he husked.

She purposefully misunderstood. "I had a nightmare," she murmured.

He had to bend his head down to hear. "What's that?" he asked again, just as low.

"I...I keep seeing it," she said, hating the tears in her voice.

"Sometimes that happens." His hand still held her head close, but the other was making soothing circles along her back. "You just gotta get rid of it. Stomp more bastards, drive faster, drink more."

She gave a ragged laugh. "I think that's you, not me."

"Give a try then," he urged, shifting on the bed. She took his movement as an invitation and climbed onto his lap.

Drive faster sounded like a plan. He might not want to shag her, but she could make him get in the Quattro, press down on the accelerator, shift quickly through the gears until they were in overdrive-

Her lips travelled up his neck. He made his grumpy sound, causing his throat to bob. She rode that right up to his jaw, her teeth and lips exploring in the near darkness. She thought that she knew his smell, but now, this close, there was another undernote, like letting wine rest on your tongue before swallowing. What he'd dismissed as Man Stink was deep and complex as a full-bodied Cabernet, and she was drunk on a few sips.

He helped her to straddle him, making her feel small and feminine, exploring this outcropping of muscle, tendon, and surprisingly solid torso. Why the hell wasn't he kissing her? She grabbed fistfuls of his hair and dragged his mouth to hers.

She inhaled, he inhaled and there was no preliminary kisses, just open-mouthed, wet movement, tongues finding each other in the dark. His hands slid down to her bottom, spanning the cheeks to drag her tight against him. One hand drifted up to her breast, cupping its heavy weight through her satin pyjama top. He used the slick fabric to burnish her flesh, bringing her nipple instantly to a tight peak.

They were definitely in a top gear already. She might as well roll the windows down and get some wind in her hair. She began to rock against him. With a grumble, he shifted, and she had a moment of terror that he was pulling away. When she scooted after him, gripping his hips with her thighs to trap him, she realised that he'd just needed to free his erection from under her.

With a groan of approval against his mouth, she slid up his length straining through his trousers. Up, up, up, she mapped the shape, her crotch moulding to his hardness. His hands were back on her arse, guiding her. He pulled his lips away, ignoring her hiss of discontent, to press shockingly light kisses along her throat, burrowing under her chin to nibble at her collarbone. His hair was so incredibly soft, brushing against her flaming cheek. Moaning, she rubbed the strands against her lips, swollen and tender with their kisses.

He surged against her just as she rocked forward and she nearly came right in the contact between her clit and his hardness. But then he said, "Bolly," and the pleading in his voice, such an un-Gene sound, pulled her back to a form of sanity.

"Do you have protection?" she gasped.

He rested his forehead on her shoulder, catching his breath. "Wot? ...Me gun's in my suitcase. You want me to get it?"

"No, a condom," she hissed, pushing back.

"What for?"

"STD's—"

"What's that? Like VAT? You're gonna charge me after all?"

"Pregnancy."

That seemed to have a chilling effect on him. He stumbled off the bed. "No, I don't."

"Well then..." she said lamely. His no was like a splash of cold water on her face. What the hell was she doing? Could she get pregnant in this world by an imaginary construct? So far, she hadn't been able to control a single thing, so why not?

Of all things, he said, "So you'll be able to sleep now?" as though what had just transpired was some sort of sleep aid.

"Yes, thank you," she said stiffly.

"Right then—" He kept running his fingers through his hair, leaving it more and more dishevelled.

"You should get back to the watch," she murmured.

He finally stopped. "What?"

"The Mannings. Even if it's the middle of the night, this might be a time for their gang to show up."

"'pose so," he muttered, giving a short nod. He slipped through the door, closing it firmly behind him.

Crawling back on the rumpled bed, Alex lay in the dark, mortified. She'd behaved like one of those pathetic slags found in a wine bar just before closing time, frantically rubbing on the closest available male. And poor Gene had let her, out of pity, she was sure. For the good of the team. He'd thought her already near a breakdown, he'd said, and that's why he'd brought her out here for this stakeout. Now she'd acted in an utterly unprofessional and slutty manner.

This was worse than when she'd practically begged him to shag her. He must think her completely mental. First she'd punched him, then she'd hit on him. He'd been upset when she'd screwed the wanker; not because he'd wanted her for himself, but because it looked bad in the CID. He must have thought he had to give her a few crumbs tonight or she'd rush down to the local pub and find some other bloke, causing who knows what disruptions to their operation here. God, was she is danger of losing her job over this? If he decided that she was so unstable?

Pressing quivering hands to her hot face, she wondered how she could possible face him tomorrow. Dawn was already creeping into the room. If ever she needed the hand of God to pull her back to her time, it was now. Or to just go ahead and die. That would be fine too.

~End Part One


	2. Chapter 2

_Much thanks again to Aussiegirl41 for her continued assistance with British English. Apparently there's a whole double L thing? That I didn't know about?_

* * *

Gene lay flat on his bedroom's saggy, narrow bed with the flagpole still raised in his trousers. It was less about desire now, and more terror and confusion. What, in the bloody hell, had just happened?

His D.I. was vulnerable, emotionally tender, and he'd rutted on her like some stray dog. That's what he was. A stinking, disgusting, animal. She'd made it clear from the moment they met that she found him repugnant and below her consideration. The one time she'd shown the slightest interest, she was pissed out of her mind and had been pissed off at him. After punching him in the gob in front of a bunch of prossies, he had suspected that she'd just wanted to _really _humiliate him when she had flirted. Something like him with his trousers around his ankles and his todger up like a bull elephant's trunk in full cry as she pointed and laughed. Instead, she'd given him another smack across the chops by shagging some red-braced woofter in front of the C.I.D.

But tonight she'd crawled into his lap as if she were a lost kitten, soft and warm, her flesh giving to his frantic hands. He'd felt her up like a schoolboy with his first floozy, and had just about as much to show for it.

From the moment that he first saw her, he'd wanted to touch her tits. It was a simple goal. In usual Gene Genie style, he did it within an hour of meeting her. Which only made him want to do it again. Alot. And now that he'd gotten another chance, he'd been 'first date; outside upstairs only'.

"Poofter," he growled. "You nancy boy, fairy, girlie, scrote." He didn't feel any better for chewing himself out. It did calm him a bit and the tent in his trousers began to lower until a fresh panic overcame him. She was giving him horn for all the wrong reasons.

God, what if she reported him? The brass looked the other way for a lot of things regarding the birds in the department, but practically raping your subordinate after bringing her far out into the country alone—that wasn't going to go away. And he was no fool. She was the future for the Met, not the likes of him. When it came time to decide who was going to be the football and who was going to be Joe Hayes in this match, he knew that he'd be the one face down on the pitch with a boot to his arse.

The uncertainty and anxiety was giving him brain cramp. He hated himself for pawing at her and hated himself for not getting in her knickers before she put on the brakes. Condoms? What the hell was that about? A woman like that should be on the pill, right? Did she think he had the clap? Well he didn't, dammit—dozy tart.

Around and around his thoughts went, whilst he lay there still fully dressed, hands clutching the bedding as though it was the only thing keeping him on the narrow bed, staring at the low plaster ceiling until his eyes burned with exhaustion.

Then he heard the roar of the Quattro's motor below his window. Whilst he'd been mentally slapping his face for hours, dawn had come. Struggling up, he got to the window in time to see the taillights going down the narrow drive.

"Bloody hell," he rasped, then dashed downstairs. He'd left the keys on the kitchen table, setting them there as he'd put down the takeaway containers the previous night. They were gone. He thundered back up the stairs, looking for that damn woman in all the rooms. No sign of her.

Slowly turning in her empty room, fists clenched at his sides, he let loose with a fresh set of profanities, this time, directed at Alex Drake. She was determined to make him as nutty as she was.

* * *

Alex found a bakery open in the village. From the shop assistant, whilst paying for her cottage loaf and dozen buns, she found out there was a local farmer who sold fresh produce. It was just finding the property...

As she drove up and down country lanes, she had time to sort through her thoughts and calm her frayed nerves. There was nothing to be upset about. This world was an imagery construct and Gene Hunt was simply an incredibly realistic creation of her subconscious...But what did it mean?

Because surely, if she were to create a fantasy man, he would not be it. He was the antithesis of everything that she wanted and sought in a sexual partner. Which must mean something...Her father's betrayal...Had she been aware of it on some subconscious level? What was this creation—an infuriating, bombastic, testosterone-soaked male with the impulses of a fourteen year old—trying to tell her about herself? When he was the exact opposite of her father, and every man to whom she'd ever been attracted?

A sudden thought—whatever his frustrating qualities, at least she'd given him a large cock. Hitting the brakes, she halted the Quattro in the lane and scolded, "Alex, stop that right now!" The only answer was a slightly hysterical fit of giggles.

By the time she'd found the farm, made her purchases and loaded the boot, she was back to replaying every moment of her encounter with Gene in embarrassing detail. Dear God, what was her body back in the 2008 hospital bed doing whilst she'd been dry humping on him...it...him? Face flaming, she got back behind the wheel. Find the positive, she told herself. At least she could get a medical journal publication out of this experience: _Sexual Release in Comatose States_

Only she hadn't had a release...She'd been so damn close...Biting her lower lip, she ignored the return of arousal, as quick and startling as it had been been last night. It was simply a physical response to a psychological crisis, as much as she hated the thought that she had a plain old case of Daddy Issues. And Mommy Complex, she groaned.

When she pulled in the drive at the cottage, the door flung open and Gene stormed out. He still wore yesterday's suit, crumpled and stained as a fish and chips' newspaper. His hair was a bird's nest and his cheeks grizzled with stubble. He looked incredibly real; how could she think that he was only a construction of her disorders?

His red-rimmed eyes glared at her as he started to rave.

"I've brought food. We can eat now," she said, cautious as if offering a bit of meat through the lion cage bars.

He closed his mouth, opened it again, then said, "I'll help you carry in the bags," and moved around to the boot.

Her nerves fluttered as they walked side by side into the cottage. "The Mannings up yet?" she asked, needing the distraction.

"Sleeping like horny babies," Gene said quickly, hoping that was the case. He hadn't given them a thought.

Once in the kitchen, and the sacks and boxes set on the table, they both stared at the hob with trepidation. Their mutual discomfort over the previous night dissipated with this new challenge.

"Do you know how to turn it on?" asked Alex.

"Just a switch," blustered Gene.

She moved forward cautiously. "I think it's gas. Where's the bottle?"

"Won't there still be a switch?"

"Did you even once turn on the stove in your house?" she snipped at him.

"Did you?" he fired back. "We had electric!"

"I did too," she bemoaned, wringing her hands.

He traced the gas hose going from the hob to the bottle under the worktop in a cabinet. "Right." He squatted down, peering at it, perplexed.

"Don't blow us up!"

"Very encouraging!" he growled, turning the knob on the bottle until he heard a hiss.

Returning to the hob, he tried the knobs on the front. He could smell gas, but nothing happened. He vaguely remembered his mam putting a match to the burners...Fumbling with his lighter, he flicked it on.

"Gene, don't hurt yourself!" Alex clutched at his arm.

He pushed her back. "Don't be a prat!" he muttered, and held the lighter by the burner. With a great whoosh, it ignited and they both leapt away.

"Christ on a bike," he panted, wiping his brow. "That seems to be it."

"Yes, now..." Alex turned to the supplies she'd bought. "I have eggs. Farm fresh."

He looked at the pile of brown, still warm, eggs in a cardboard basket. "They're not going to give birth when you crack them, are they?"

"Don't be silly," she said, although she wasn't all that confident. Taking down one of the black iron pans hung on the wall, she placed it on the burner which Gene had lit. Flames blazed up the side. That looked positive, she thought. Very much like cooking.

Fumbling through the boxes, she found the butter. Using a wooden spoon, she dropped a great glob in the pan, where it immediately hissed and melted, turning brown and beginning to smoke. She started to sweat. Everything was happening so quickly.

"One of those eggs," she barked.

For once not giving her guff, he quickly handed an egg off to her. She cracked it on the edge of the pan too sharply and yolk and white slid down the side, causing another flare. "Damn!"

Arm outstretched, she demanded two more. The first one, she got shell in the pan too, but there was no way she was reaching into the haze-filled pan to pick the fragments out. "Three should be enough, right?"

Gene was rooting in her packages. "Bacon!" he announced joyfully. Before she could protest, he dropped the fatty pieces into the pan. It hissed threateningly.

Alex stood back as far as she could and poked at the pan's contents with the spoon. As the fat in the bacon liquefied, it began to spit and snap, driving her either further back. The kitchen filled with smoke. Coughing, Gene reached for the window over the sink and pushed it open.

"It's not that bad!" Alex sputtered, even as she tried to move the pan off the burner. The handle was too hot, and she winced with pain.

"Silly cow!" Gene said when he noticed. Pulling his jacket sleeve down to cover his hand, he elbowed her aside and managed to move the pan to an unlit burner. "Bloody Nora," he gasped.

"What a mess," she said dejectedly, looking at the burnt, uncooked eggs and shrivelled, blackened bacon.

"How 'bout a nice boiled egg," he suggested and was rewarded with a bright smile. He found himself smiling back. Then he remember the weight of her breast in his palm and he had to turn away, flexing his fingers.

"You didn't get burnt, did you?" she asked, voice full of concern and standing much too close. She grasped his hand before he could stop her. Tracing her fingers lightly along the palm, she furrowed her brow. "No damage, from the look of it."

He stared down at her bowed head, his mind whirling once more. He could see his hand quivering in hers—ponce! He hated the way she made him feel but there was no way in hell he was going to step away.

"Toast!" he snapped. "Best make toast too!"

She was the one to move back. Tracing her lips nervously with her tongue, she nodded. Without the curls, her hair gathered in a messy bun at the base of her neck, all her freckles in sharp relief across her nose, and her bright eyes as clear as a dark-pebbled stream, she looked like some schoolgirl. He'd never had a kink for the underage skirts, but there was something in her vulnerability that reminded him of just such a girl; untouched and waiting to be awoken...Damn this woman. She just kept adding to his list.

Turning away, he rummaged through her stores until he discovered the loaf of bread wrapped in paper. Meanwhile, she'd found a saucepan and filled it with water and half a dozen eggs. After the intensity of the moment, it was a relief to go about mundane domestic chores. They managed to toast the bread with only the first batch burned, and the eggs' yolks were too runny for her taste, but at least it was food.

Gene wolfed through four of the eggs, smearing his toast around to sop up all the yolk on his plate. "Bit more practice and you'll pick this right up," he said.

She sipped her coffee and glared at him over her cup. "What if I don't want to be a better cook?"

"Your arse isn't going to be that pert forever, Bolly," he offered. "You're gonna need something to fall back on." He chuckled at his own humour.

She did not. "I don't need any man who sees me as unpaid domestic labour."

"But you will be paid. The bloke brings home his pay, the bird keeps the house," he explained, his mind back at the drudgery of his marriage. There'd been some comfort in that, no matter how dull.

"No thank you." She pushed back her plate. His gaze lighted on her remaining eggs. She gave a brief nod and he pulled it over to him.

"You need to eat more," he told her, even as he finished her breakfast.

"Not if I'm to keep my man satisfied," she snapped.

He peered up at her from under his blond forelock and she resisted the urge to smooth it back. "Got one?"

She just stared back. He had been thrusting against her last night, caressing her breast with a practised touch, his tongue mapping her mouth—and he was asking if she had another bloke? What did he think of her?

He went on before she could speak. "What about that Evan White? Haven't seen him around since the custody hearing."

She gulped the rest of her coffee. "He's quit his law practice to be there for Alex. He's put all the Prices' assets into a trust and he manages that. Does consulting work. So he won't be coming around with clients anymore."

"So you've been seeing him." Gene was moving his own coffee mug quarter turns on the table, seemingly fascinated by the task.

She stared at him again. She couldn't really tell him that this was prior knowledge. "I went to lunch with him once," she bluffed. "Heard the news. Haven't seen him since."

"Want to?" he asked gruffly.

"Not particularly," she said. "Can't really say I have much respect for men who fuck their friend's wife."

Gene shrugged, still not looking at her. "Seemed to be more your sort though."

"More my sort than what?"

His gaze shot up. Instead of replying, he snatched the keys from the tabletop. "My turn to go for a spin," he said abruptly. "You can wash up."

Grinding her teeth, Alex looked around the filthy kitchen. Smoke soiled every surface and the rancid odor of burned butter was in the air. But when she turned back to protest, he'd already beat his retreat.

* * *

In the village, Gene found a few small businesses were just opening. He shook his head and grumbled at how anyone would want to live in these little four square hamlets. He spotted the betting shop and pushed through the door. After placing his bets for the weekend's races and matches, he asked for the Gents. Inside the facilities, he didn't use the toilet, but stared at the condom machine on the wall, playing with the coins in his pocket. Finally losing his nerve, he banged out through the door, cursing his cowardice and lack of confidence under his breath.

Even as they'd eaten breakfast, he'd been studying her. Her disguise as some country toff was unsettling. She looked like a royal to him, or at least gentry, with her precise accent, clean, chiselled features, and the way her expensive yet frightfully simple clothing hung on her slim frame. _End of, Gene_, he'd brooded through his cup of coffee. Don't take her tongue down your throat as anything but desperate unhappiness.

He entered the tobacco shop at the end of the high street and asked for two packs of Winstons. As the old man behind the counter slowly shuffled to the proper rack, Gene's gaze travelled over the other displays, seeing if there was anything else he wanted. He tossed a roll of mint Mentos on the counter—he knew she liked those. A copy of the Daily Mail—let her get her Liberal bollocks fix for the day. And a packet of Garibaldi's for him. When the old man returned with the fags, Gene said casually, "A box of them Skyns too, Dad. Size large."

Ignoring the way the old man's thick eyebrows shot up, Gene pulled out his wad of notes and grumbled at the cost of everything these days as he paid. At the price of Johnnies, no wonder there were so many bastards in the world.

When he finally made his way back to the cottage, he found Alex pacing in the drive. Before he could even come to a full stop, she yanked open the passenger door. "The Mannings!" she said, jumping in. "They're on the move."

"Wot?" Gene asked, befuddled. A blue Escort went past the end of their drive.

"There!" urged Alex, pointing.

When he didn't immediately take off in pursuit, she commanded: "Mush!"

His own familiar refrain made Gene spin the car and bring it out onto the lane. Having gone around this morning, Alex took the role of navigator.

"Surely they're going to the village. Right here—Right!"

Cursing under his breath, Gene stopped, backed and managed to get the Quattro turned right at the fork in the lane. They were rewarded by the sight of the blue end of the Escort ahead.

"Damn, they aren't going to the village. And we're so conspicuous in this car—" She shot Gene an unfriendly look. "We should have checked out a Land Rover or something for this assignment."

"Over my dead body," Gene said, easing back so they weren't that close to the Escort. There was nowhere for the other car to go and no traffic, so he didn't worry about losing them.

"That's the way to the river," Alex noted when the Escort took a turn.

"How many miles did you put on her?" Gene said suspiciously, checking the odometer.

"Stay back!" Alex nagged, ignoring his complaints. "We can't be seen!"

"Why not? We're two holiday makers, just like they are."

She looked over at him. His suit looked even worse than earlier, now stained with smoke and grease, but it was still a suit. "You look like a pimp, out looking for one of his stray toms," she pointed out.

He only growled under his breath and pulled the Quattro off the track and behind some bushes. "We'll hoof it then. Out for a stroll like."

Rolling her eyes, she waited for him to pull on his overcoat from the backseat. Big and black, he looked even more threatening. She wrapped her borrowed mac more tightly around her. A light rain had started. Flipping up the hood, she cautiously headed down the track, following the fresh tyre tracks.

Faint grumbling at the rear told her the mud was getting on Gene's boots, but she couldn't give him much sympathy. If he didn't even prepare for an undercover assignment—

A sound made her stop. She held up her hand, muting Gene. They crept along until she pushed back against him. He breathed in her hair and one arm wrapped around her waist.

She lifted her mouth to his ear. "I don't believe it," she murmured.

"Wot?" he croaked.

She pulled down a branch to reveal Sharon on her knees in the wet grass, giving head to Anthony as he leant against a tree.

Rather than being turned on, Gene was overcome with a fit of the giggles. He could feel the outrage radiating from Alex and this struck him as hilarious. But Gene Hunt did not giggle. At least not in front of birds.

He took a deep breath. "Doesn't look as though they're going to have a meet up with their gang," he managed to say mildly.

She shot him a dirty look, but that meant that she was gazing up into his face and despite her fury, it felt all very rom-com even if Gene didn't resemble Hugh Grant in the least. His hair was wet, plastered to his head. Drops were running off his broad shoulders. One hung on the end of his chin and it was taking all her control not to snag it with her tongue. Against the green canopy, his eyes were blue as a tropical lagoon and she wanted to drown, feel the pull of him as she slipped under the surface.

Anthony rudely interrupted by suddenly bellowing, "Fook yeah, yah slut!"

Alex's face screwed up in disgust. Gene took another deep breath that came out as a choking cough. Better than laughing. Somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind, he knew she would judge him, and not this twat with his trousers around his skinny ankles.

Anthony lit a cigarette while Sharon spit into a bush.

Alex made another face. "At least she's not giving him the full package," Gene murmured in her ear. The icy glare she gave him said that even that comment was not welcome.

Once he'd recovered, Manning moved in on his wife, pulling her skirt up roughly and pushing her against the tree. He fumbled at her top, exposing her breasts.

"Right. Good then," muttered Gene, now a bit turned on. Why the hell hadn't he at least gotten a hand under Alex's damn pyjamas? To touch her skin—he knew it would be as smooth as running his finger along that farm fresh butter. To tongue her nipple, see if he could make her whimper...reach down her knickers—

Time to stop right there. He suggested: "Might as well get back at the car, eh?"

She turned back, a stiff smile pasted on her face. "Yes, I think so."

It was an uncomfortable wait. Both were dripping wet and the interior soon fogged up. Gene wanted to turn on the heat, but Alex advised that the powerful motor would be heard by even those distracted lovers.

"Then let's go back now," groused Gene. "I'm soaked through."

Properly dressed, Alex wasn't as wet as he was, but she was cold. "They could still be meeting someone."

He took a cautious sip from his flask. Even though he was damp and stiff, waves of exhaustion washed over him. He couldn't drink too much or he'd drop right off. He offered the flask to Alex, but she shook her head. Twisting his mouth in contempt at her prudishness, he shoved the flask in his pocket and fished out his fags. He almost pulled out the condom box instead and closed his eyes briefly at the horror that would have been.

He muttered under his breath and smoked, keeping his window cracked despite her complaining, making her even more cold. Alex stared at his profile, watching the hypnotic motion of cigarette lifted to lips, the inhale, exhale, head tilted to window, the way his fingers played with the filter...How they'd played with her nipple through the fabric...Why hadn't he put his hands under her top?

Oh right. Because he'd just been humouring her. Keeping her from having a full breakdown. She sank low in her seat, arms tightly crossed and put herself into a proper deep, sulk.

He watched her from the corner of his eye. Somehow, he's fucked this up worse than a drunk rabbi with the DT's trying to nick a wee tadger. But for the life of him, he couldn't figure out how. Women. He inhaled deeply from his fag and was unreasonably grateful to see the Escort come by. Once the Mannings were past, he turned the Quattro carefully and followed to the cottages.

It appeared that their targets had merely wanted some al fresco shagging. They hurried inside out of the pouring rain. Gene and Alex were both happy to be back in shelter as well.

Alex checked through the front windows, shaking with cold. "Looks like they're building a fire and settling in for the afternoon."

"Sounds like a plan." Still in his dripping overcoat, Gene tossed wood in the hearth and shoved a newspaper between the logs.

It lit, but smoke soon filled the room. "Did you open the damper?" Alex nagged through chattering teeth.

He yanked the handle to open the damper. "Go get yourself a shower, woman. Before you die of it."

"What about you? You're wetter than I am."

He bit back the suggestion that they shower together. "Just don't take all the hot water."

She headed up the stairs and he paced before the fire, feeding it logs until it was a roaring inferno. Alex returned sooner than he expected, her hair wet, a loose jumper hanging from her bony shoulders, her pyjama pants low on her scrawny hips and her feet encased in thick socks. Without a word, he brushed past her and took the stairs two at a time.

Puzzled, Alex watched him go. After a shrug, she headed to the kitchen. She was suddenly starving and was sure Gene would be too when he returned. She'd have to see what she could manage.

Quite proud of her efforts, she'd just finished setting down plates of buns, cheese, pate and bottles of cider on a table before the fire when Gene returned, padding barefoot back into the front room.

She sank to the settee. He only wore a dark blue dress shirt, still creased from being folded his his travel bag...And...She tilted her head...black boxers. His long, long legs were surprisingly sleek. With his hair tufted up—she knew from her own experience that the shower head had been too low to fit his head under it—bright blue chest and skinny stems, he reminded her of some great heron.

She grinned, earning her a suspicious look and that pooch of his lips. "Wot?" he grumbled.

"Don't you have pyjamas?"

"First off, Bolly, I didn't know we were out here to have some slumber party. Second, no, I do not lounge around in silk pyjamas like a poofter."

She refrained from pointing out that no less than Hugh Hefner lounged around in silk pyjamas. "Right then. Lunch."

"Lunch?"

"A very nice Stilton, goose liver pate, and lovely crusty rolls."

He pulled up a chair to the table that she'd loaded with food. "And beer," he said lovingly.

"Cider, actually. Put up by the farmer himself."

He snorted. "Cider. Poof drink."

She took a sip. It seemed strong, but she wasn't going to say that after his snide comment. Although she tried to discuss the case with him, he only grunted in reply, working steadily through three rolls, a massive wedge of cheese and two jars of pate. Three large bottles of cider were quickly emptied while she downed one.

He slumped back in his chair. "That was good. Nice job, Bolly."

She couldn't seem to get angry. In fact, she was having difficulty staying upright. "Thank you," she said with great dignity even as she eased into a horizontal position.

"'elcome." He nodded with equal dignity.

She patted the cushion beside her. "Come 'ver 'ere," she slurred.

He peered suspiciously from under his long lashes. "Why?"

"'cause I'm having difficulty seeing you at this great distance," she said, pushing back her damp hair as though that would help her vision.

"I'm right 'ere." Gene gulped down the dregs of his bottle.

She squinted at her bottle. "I don't think this is cider."

"I know cider—" He stopped and wiped a hand over his forehead. "Did that farmer call it scrumpy by any chance?"

She broke into a wide smile. "Why yes, he did."

Gene rose, wavered, then spun on those long legs as if a giraffe losing its balance.

"Timber!" she called out as he crashed down beside her.

"Damn," he mumbled, face in a throw pillow.

"Careful," she warned, patting his back. Her hand lingered, beginning to smooth wide circles. His shoulders were so broad...

Muffled by the pillow, he told her, "Scrumpy is no cider. It'll knock you on your arse like a demented donkey."

"Which it appears to have done," she said, delighted. Suddenly exhausted—after all, she'd had hardly any sleep the previous night—she draped herself across his back. He was warm too. Why had she known that he'd be so toasty?

"I am not drunk," he protested and managed to twist around under her. Somehow she was now nestled in the cradle of those long legs, her chin propped on his breastbone, staring up into his mesmerising gaze. His blazing blue focus was sharp but his eyelids half-closed.

She gave a deep sigh, then a delicate burp.

"'cuse me," she muttered, covering her mouth belatedly. Her arm was so heavy...Her hand flopped down on his chest, finding the bare skin at his throat.

He wound a strand of her damp hair around one of his fingers. "'our curls is gone," he muttered.

She nodded, thumping her chin on his chest. Again, she thought how warm he was, and soft on the right places for her to take a little nap...She snuggled down deeper...

But hard in other places...

Her gaze snapped up. His dropped, and of all things, he looked ashamed. He tried to wiggle away.

"Don't you like me, Gene?" she asked, tears stuck in her throat. "I like you." Fatally, she remembered that she was a pathetic drunk.

"Damn it, Bolly."

"Fine," she hissed, actually spitting as she tried to sound venomous and only succeeded in drooling. She started to struggle herself, attempting to free herself from his long limbs.

"Bolly," he groaned, his arms wrapping around her. He rolled, trapping her against the back of the settee.

She looked up, panting, her head light from the cider and claustrophobia. His leg draped over her hip, holding her in place.

"I like you," he said. Simple words, so why were they so filled with pain?

"Good," she said, right before grabbing a handful of his mane to keep him from evading her kiss.

Neither of them seemed to be able to work their lips very well. Wet, sloppy caresses, half on their cheeks, their noses, chins, tongues licking as if trying to get the last drop of ice cream. She snorted a giggle, hiccuped and burped once more.

"I am _so_ sorry!"

"Please God, Bolly, do shut up," he ground out, fumbling around under her jumper. Where the hell was a tit? He didn't even need both! Just one!

She had found his arse though. His boxers were being shoved down, and her very strong grip had a hold. She seemed to have the idea of bodily shoving him inside her, layers of clothing be damned. He would normally heartily approve of her enthusiasm, but his dick was trapped between them, and her belly, tight as a drum skin, was flattening it out like a road-crossing badger under a lorry's tyres.

She gave another hiccup, said, "Well shit," and then suddenly went slack.

"Bolly?"

He tilted his head to get a look at her face. Eyes closed; out cold.

"Well shit," he echoed. Unconscious, she was like a long, soft pillow, luring him to join her in slumber. His eyelids slid closed, just for a minute...He'd get back to this after a quick kip...

* * *

"Gene!"

He burrowed into the pillow, wanting just five more minutes... His arse was cold though. He fumbled behind his back. His boxers were down. That was the problem. But when he tried to pull them up, she slapped his bare bum cheek.

"Gene, wake up!"

He cracked one eye, very slowly and painfully. Alex loomed over him, wavering in and out of focus.

"They're gone!"

"O?" he rasped, clutching his head.

"The Mannings!" Alex was rushing around the room, snatching her mac off the chair where it had been drying. "They're probably meeting up with their gang! We have to go find them!"

He was upright. This was better. He cradled his throbbing head in his hands. "No. We don't," he said thickly.

"What do you mean? We've blown this case, Gene." She stood before him, mac partway on, her brow furrowed in worry.

"There is no case."

"What do you mean?"

He ran his hands through his hair, as though he could get his jumbled thoughts back together if only his hair was combed. "There's no case," he repeated. "No blaggers."

"What?" she breathed. She glanced to the window. "You mean...We've been watching some perfectly ordinary couple shagging for two days?"

He couldn't answer. He only nodded.

"But why...Why would you do that?" she said, appalled.

He finally raised his gaze to her. There was confusion in hers, but lurking behind anger was ready and waiting to rain down upon his head. The words he said next would be the single most important ones that he ever said to Alex Drake.

He opened his mouth.

Then closed it. Opened it again. With effort, he stood, wavering for his balance as his head swam.

"Well," she said, demanding. "What is it?"

He had to say it. Get it over with. Have her cut his bollocks off and be done with it.

"Why did you bring me out here, make up some lie?" she demanded to know.

His hands were on her face before she could speak again, his mouth down on hers. His answer couldn't be put into words.

End ~ Part 2

_E/N: Why yes, I am a cruel bitch, why do you ask?_


	3. Chapter 3

___This chapter contains adult, sexual material. If that bothers you, please move along. _Another word to the wise. In bugs'smut, it's supposed to be funny in places. You just have to decide if you're laughing at the places I intended. 

_I seem to have backslid this week with my English/English, so poor Aussie had to work extra hard to clean up my z's and double ll's. I am nothing but a Yank without her!_

* * *

Alex had never had girlhood fantasies about a fairytale prince sweeping her off her feet and carrying her away to his castle. Yet it was shockingly easy to remain passive in Gene's arms every time he carried her.

Once more, he had her secure in his grasp, this time barrelling up the cottage stairs. All she could do was vaguely hope he'd have some energy left after hauling her arse to the bed. Banging through the bedroom door with his shoulder, he swung her around, making her dizzy. She had a moment of fear as his head brushed the low ceiling. Busting down doors to a hail of bullets was all well and good when they were after blaggers, but she needed him in one piece for what lay ahead.

When he tossed her on the bed, she realised that he'd brought them to his room with its narrow single crammed under the eaves.

"Uh, Gene-"

He must have thought she had another concern. "Got 'em-" he said briskly, snatching up his overcoat draped over the chair. Rummaging in the pocket, he pulled out a box of condoms and dropped them on the bed.

A whole box. Propped on her elbows, legs akimbo, she raised her brows. Optimistic beggar, wasn't he?

He loomed over her, hands on his hips. "Right then," he said, sounding a bit uncertain. His long thin legs, pale sticks in the dim room, were doing something to her own legs, making them shake.

This wouldn't do. They had to get the urgency back. She tugged her jumper over her head, tossing it aside. She'd left off her bra after her shower, figuring the heavy knit was thick enough to ward off an embarrassment and now she was grateful. Closer to the finish line; she started to shimmy out of her bottoms when his astonished stare made her stop, the garment wadded around her knees.

Looking down at her chest, she said, "What?" worried one of her breasts was lopsided or had some other deformity that she'd never noticed before.

"Yar tits-"

"Yes," she said slowly, feeling an embarrassed flush rising to cover the offending body parts. "What's wrong with them?"

He didn't reply for one long, awful moment. Then he breathed, "Not a damn thing."

This didn't reassure her; his expression reminded her of that time that twenty-five stone toerag had thumped him on the head with a brick during a takedown. "Oh," she said, giving a nervous smile.

"I've spared 'em a thought or two—" he admitted.

A bit more at ease, she cocked an eyebrow.

"Just expected that I'd be mentally prepared," he said, running his hand through his hair until it was a cuckoo's nest. "I'm still gobsmacked."

"They're just breasts, Gene." Why was she feeling the need to start some sort of roundtable discussion about a set of mammary glands? He was making her nervous, that's why. She wanted to clarify that they were in fact, just breasts; no guarantee that they were going to have the best sex of their lives because of these objects on her chest.

He shrugged one shoulder, looking all the world like a little boy. "I've seen a lot o' puppies in my day, Alex-"

That was not the direction that she wanted this conversation to go either. "I'll take that as a compliment and now let's change the subject-"

She straightened her shoulders, but this only gained her his soft smile and fixed gaze. She was visited by the ridiculous notion that she could now tame the Manc Lion at any time just by toying with her blouse buttons.

Finally galvanised, he sank to his knees, swung her legs around to sit on the bed's edge and leant into the crook of her neck, breathing deeply. Sly, his hand crept to one breast, just his fingertips touching skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps and causing a very needy whimper to escape her.

What the hell was he doing? Where was Gene Hunt and what had this man done with him? Had she reconfigured her delusion suddenly, afraid of tawdry sex with the construct that she had to interact with on a daily basis? She breathed deeply. Strong carbolic soap—she'd been ashamed as she'd sniffed the thick bar in the shower, knowing that it would sliding over his skin shortly. Stale cigarettes and alcohol; the smell of a boozer right at opening time, not disgusting enough to turn her away, but distinctive.

"Do you want me?" she murmured in this man's ear, still unsure. Because Gene Hunt should be mauling her with teeth and hands, grunting over her tits like a hog in slop. Not mouthing one of her breasts so gently as to cause her to be shuddering as if back in that damn meat freezer.

That got his attention. His gaze shot up, her nipple still balanced on the tip of his tongue.

He would have asked if she was fucking kidding, but that would have required taking his lips off this bap and there was no way in hell he was doing that.

He nodded enough for the affirmative and then returned to suckling in earnest, one to the other and back again. She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Good."

"Gonna be more than good, luv," he promised, pushing her over on the bed and starting to unbutton his shirt.

Then he remembered her contempt for the unfortunate Anthony Manning's shagging technique. With a regretful groan, he gave her lovely tits another caress. He dipped his nose under one to breathe in the musk of her sweat's sheen, lingered there for a moment to have that tenderest of skin rubbing on his stubbled cheek. Then down to her navel, swirling his tongue around the dimple until she giggled, alternately tugging and pushing at his head.

"Yeah?" she finally moaned. Kicking free her bottoms, her long legs draped over his shoulders, her heel dragging up between his shoulderblades. He took that to mean she approved of his intention.

Pushing off his nervousness—he hadn't gotten any real practice at muff munching since that dirty weekend that had stretched into a week with that batty Kraut bird; count on some Shewolf of the SS to give him proper training.

His thumbs hooked in the elastic of her knickers and he slid them off to settle into the humid dark jungle between her thighs. As the steam and rich scent rose to meet him, he decided this wouldn't be such a chore after all. Helga's barked instructions fled his mind as he just latched on, licking and suckling at anything wet and soft. Her ever escalating whimpers told him that he must be doing alright though.

He dared to cast up his glance to see if she was just faking her pleasure and nearly tumbled over on his arse at the sight of her. She was his own Bond girl, all long limbs and tousled curls on the pillow, her eyelids half-closed but her caramel gaze keeping him pinned down. "Oh, Gene," she sighed and he nearly came in his shorts at the way she said his name. Yeah, just like that—He was Hunt. Gene Hunt. He'd wear black tie for this woman.

Back to it, lad. He pushed her thighs open wider, latched onto her clit and worked it with his tongue, vaguely remembering a good strong clip to the head from Helga as she's urged on this particular move. He received another blow as Alex suddenly bucked off the mattress, her heels thumping on his shoulders and she yelped as though he'd trod on her foot. He fell back, afraid that he'd done something wrong, but she reached for him frantically, yanking him back to her. Unsure, he kissed her inner thighs carefully. She murmured, "Too sensitive...Give me a moment..."

He cocked his head in confusion. Had he done that right? Was she pleased?

She saw his uncertainty; such a rare expression on him. Giggling, she grabbed his shirt collar and tugged him close, flicking the remaining buttons open and pushing the garment off.

Propped on his elbows over her, he went back to her tits. What he wanted anyway, he thought with a happy little groan.

Hearing that satisfied sound, she rolled her eyes, but moved along on her own want list. If he got to feel her up, she got to lay hands on him too. Pushing down his boxers, she took her time, tormenting him as he'd done to her, touching him with the lightest of touches. Tracing circles on his quivering thighs, her thumbs pressed on his narrow hips.

"Dammit, woman," he hissed in her ear, shifting to press his cock in her palm.

She gave a low chuckle, the confident sound of a woman with all the power.

But now he was the one wondering, "Do you want me?"

"Shush, shush," she urged, suddenly frantic.

She pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him again and again, her tongue and teeth making all sorts of promises. Her hand snaked down between their bodies, finally grasping his length. She had to break the kiss to mutter, "Oh boy..." She didn't begrudge Gene's answering smug chuckle.

Like grabbing a root, thick and solid, smooth polished wood but corded with strength. A head-spinning moment of doubt and fear, like being at the highest point of the swing's arc before jumping to see how far she could fly. She wasn't some size queen, but if it was there, she wasn't going to complain. All that bollocks about it's not the size but what they do with it—sometimes just that, bollocks. Technique wasn't everything, after all. His enthusiasm while giving her oral sex was worth more than any fancy tongue-twirling with that curl of the fingers in just the perfect spot. He'd been as eager as if wolfing down a dripping bacon buttie after an all night stakeout and she could really appreciate that for what it was.

Another giggle escaped, breaking their kiss.

His head popped up to glare at her. "Oi, Bolly. No bloke likes to hear a tart laughing when she's got 'er hand on 'is todger," he grumped at her.

She sputtered something, incapable of any witty repartee at this time. In retaliation, his hand burrowed between her thighs and she arched into the invasion. Okay, maybe he did know how curl his fingers just so...Win, win for her. She released a full-throated laugh, husky and filled with desire.

He loomed over her, that silver gaze pinning her down. He licked his fingers dry. "Right then. Let's get the wellies on and jump in."

He reached for the condom box and ripped one open with his teeth. Of course he would. She rolled her eyes again. He better have not damaged it with his showing off. His head was brushing the ceiling again. She lay back on the bed, trying to get her breathing under control—it wouldn't do any good to lose consciousness at this juncture, and her head _did_ hit the wall.

Before he could roll the condom on, she stilled him. "Wait, I think—"

Think. Thinking never good, not when it was a totty about to let that bit of rough Guv put a leg over her. He slumped on the edge of the bed. With any other woman, he would have been furious, calling her a pricktease, but he could only just give a shrug. Close, but the cigar wasn't getting clipped tonight—

She stood. "Well come along then," she said in that bossy tone of hers.

He stared up at her. "Wot?"

"There's not enough room in this bloody bed," she said, ever practical despite being starkers in the presence of a bloke with a third eye beaded on her.

Holding out her hand, she repeating, "Come along."

He snatched up his box of condoms and trotted after her like a big-pawed Mastiff, complete with drool coming from the corner of his mouth.

In her room, Alex got down to business. "Right then," she said with that sharp-witted gleam in her eye that she had when scribbling evidence on her whiteboard. He should have realised that she wouldn't have a romantic bone in her body.

After sitting on the bed, she reached for the condoms. "Allow me—" she offered.

He shooed her hands away. "Not happening. I'd come all over you like some kid if you touch me again. For once I'll appreciate the numbing properties of a rubber."

She didn't take no for an answer. But she wasn't after the condom. Her fingertips grazed from his bottom ribs to his hipbones, making him hiss so he didn't giggle. He hadn't giggled since he was six, and yet he could barely control this impulse. She made him want to do a lot of things that would make the lads think less of him.

They weren't here though, having Alex Drake squeeze his arse cheeks while her lips and tongue travelled over the swell of his belly.

His head lolled back when her mouth went past his navel. No, this would not happen; if it did, things would end fast as a snap of the fingers. He'd already warned her how close he was—typical that she would not only totally disregard what he said, but now was going to really push it—

"Bloody hell, woman," he groaned when her mouth slid easily down his length, her tongue cuppng it as she came back up. Shivers shook his limbs. But he was weak. "Please," he whispered and yes, she slurped down again. Her hands were still roaming and he prayed she didn't—

And then she did, lifting and rolling his balls. He had a rule with birds, don't touch the knackers, but damn, he'd obviously been missing something good. He was a lot rougher when he took them out bowling himself, but this gentle pressure worked too.

Somewhere through the fog, he heard wet sounds. He managed to squint down and see that Alex had her hand between her thighs. Lightning crackled down his spine from his exploding brain toward his bollocks. Frantic, he squeezed around the base of his cock to keep from coming, the other hand gripping her shoulder to stop her from sucking him over the edge.

Once he had control again, he laced his fingers through her hair. "Just a bit more," he moaned, encouraging her to take one more slip and slide ride before tugging her free.

"Right then," he gasped out. "Where's them johnnies?"

When she reached for the box—he was pleased to see her hand shaking as much as his were—her breasts swung freely, the bright pink areolas and tight nipples calling again. Just one more thing...Fairly certain this was his only ride on this particular fancy pony, he wanted to shag her every possible way. Tick all the boxes he'd been lining up in his mind since he'd first caught a glance of white skin between the black lace topping her stockings and the flash of satin knickers barely hidden by that short red skirt.

"Come 'ere," he said roughly, and her gaze shot up to meet his, heated as low-burning embers. Standing between her legs, he palmed her breasts and shifted closer. Still wet from her mouth, his cock gleamed dark against the glaring white of her skin. She knew what he wanted and the edge of her mouth lifted in a dirty little smile. He had to grip his cock again to keep from coming all over that smug face—everything ached, from the need hanging low in his belly, to his balls, tight and hard now, to his head, both the one in his palm and the one thumping under his skull.

Sliding her hands up to her breasts, she pressed them around his tip, and rolled her head back to look at him again. Her tongue was caught in the corner of her mouth. "Gene," she whispered.

"Don't." He found his breath again. "Do a fucking thing."

A slow, mean grin spread across her face. She opened her thighs wider and he could smell her, a satisfying scent like when he cracked the seal on a new bottle of single malt. "I'm not doing anything," she said mildly as she pushed her tits snug to him, taking his full length.

He could actually feel tears hovering on his eyelids, but there was no bloody way that he was even going to blink, let alone close his eyes to block out this fabulously filthy thing that he was seeing.

He thrust slowly, almost carefully, just needing to feel the slide of her moth-wing soft skin and to watch his cock's head, swollen to ripe-berry bursting, appear through the swell of her tits, pre-cum balanced on the tip...A D cup was big enough to hold the Gene Genie, it seemed. That pink tongue of hers reached for it, but she'd have to release him to get at it...

"Shit!" He reeled backward, forcing himself to recall every bloated corpse he'd ever found floating in the Thames, but still shuddering on the edge of orgasm. When he could finally look back, Alex had sprawled out on the bed, legs open unashamedly, all pure white skin, red swollen lips and dark eyes-

"Right!" he barked. "Fucking rubber!"

That grin was back. She handed him a condom.

She watched him put it on with the same careful precision that he cleaned his gun. She appreciated that, but her impatient need was thumping at her apex. "Mush," she echoed, her fingers returning to between her legs.

Watching her as he finished his task, he said, "Filthy tart," with the deepest admiration, but then, "Move 'em aside, luv. Daddy's home."

"Oh, Gene!" she said, wincing in horror, but he didn't give her one more second to rethink this whole idea of sex with DCI Hunt, relic of dark days of policing in Britain. That lout, that brute—

Then he was on her, and it was as exciting and terrifying as racing through the streets in his car, the speed's power and centrifugal force drawing their bodies together with a thundering impact. They were hurling out the doors and down a dark alley, wrestling each other; he the blag, her the copper, then he on top and she panting and straining against his powerful limbs—the one he was going to lock up.

As a tall, strong woman, she'd spent too many relationships slumping down beside the man to assure he didn't feel diminished, or had been passive in bed to not overpower him. No danger with Gene Hunt. He was bigger, stronger, but expected her to fight right next to him. They rolled and writhed, each trying to be in the superior position. Her long legs fit knees to his armpits. His equally long thighs pistoned deep and true, no worry of some tiny bird broken at the power of his thrusts. She grabbed the bedstead like a banister rail, to keep from falling, to push herself higher, faster, overcome him. His hand gripped beside hers, pinning her down, supporting her, hanging on for dear life.

She could hear a distance voice, a woman, begging to be fucked even harder. What a silly creature—then Alex recognised her. Her face flamed, the blush spread its hot wave down her jostling breasts and clenched belly and the blue sky broke through the darkness to shine upon the sight of her. Turning her gaze away, she denied the bright wonder she saw in his eyes. _Be anything but happy, Gene_, she whispered.

"Wot?" he gasped, falling over to pull their bodies flush, side by side, now just undulating with slow strokes. His big hands pressed her lower back even tighter to him. His pelvic bone ground right...There...

Her cry was even more stark than what she'd been babbling. So much pain for so long, fear, anger, anxiety, found its voice in a sound, in a hot rush of blood, once cold and pooled safe in her heart, rushing through her limbs. She clung to him—safe as always.

Instead of the usual post coital exhaustion, she was exhilarated. The tremors still shook her as she wrapped her arms around him, demanding more. He knew she was a tough girl. She could stand with him, shoulder to shoulder, guns drawn.

"Get 'im, Guv," she growled, half giggle, half admonishment.

"Right," he panted, still managing to sound triumphant as well as close to death. He propped one of her legs on his shoulder, shifted their joined bodies until he could put one foot down beside the bed and started to hammer at her, gripping her hips in a vice hold, controlling everything; the depth, the angle, the speed—she came again, too soon but it had to happen; his domination scaring her to the point of hysteria and ecstasy. The way he irritated her, and drove her crazy and made her want to scream…who would have guessed that would lead straight to a great orgasm? Okay, she probably had known on some level—

Another ungodly sound, near a guttural scream, and she just let it go, not worrying about looking pretty or desirable or like the tarts in the blue films. She fought back, bucking up against his forceful hold, and his intense gaze heated to molten lead, his jaw tightened, but his grip lessened.

Swinging her ankle down from his shoulder, she wrapped both legs around his waist and pressed down again and again on his cock until his eyes rolled back and he cackled like some old Cockney barfly drunk on his pleasure and pain cocktail.

She repeated her ridiculous question: "Do you want me, Gene?" and he came in a flood of curses and head shaking, just as he did whenever she asked any other bloody nutty question.

She arched up against him again, slamming into the Quattro's passenger door one last time as he spun to a stop at the crime scene. Idiot. The dead body wasn't getting any less cold.

"Gene!" she gasped, falling back to the mattress.

"I know," he mumbled into her neck as he collapsed on her.

After the cacophony of squeaking bedframe, the headboard thumping on the wall, and their own bellowing, the room seemed deadly quiet. Gene raised his head cautiously, looking around at anything but Alex's face. He didn't know who he expected to be there—perhaps the Mannings, come to see what the hell the fuss was about.

Fingers brushed his hair off his sweaty forehead. Lips touched his chin, not quite a kiss. But he didn't feel a foot pushing him out of the bed, so he took that to mean he could stay. He settled his head on the pillow beside her. Good, because he didn't think that he could stand, let alone walk. When he lifted his arm, she snuggled under.

Still, he worried. And rightly so, when she said: "Gene—"

Here it came. While his simple lizard brain only wanted to bask in the blazing heat of their fucking, Alex Drake would want to talk. A lot. Vaguely, he wondered how hard he'd have to shag her to get her to shut up for even ten minutes. Whatever it was, he doubted that he was capable.

The tension in the air meant that he was expected to speak. "Yeah."

"You never answered me. Why did you bring me out here if it's not an op?"

He sighed deeply. There was no right answer to this. "You needed a holiday; I knew you wouldn't take one if I didn't trick you into doing it."

"Oh." Her palm was smoothing across his chest. He really did have the most lovely skin. It reminded her of petting the hide of a very well-bred Arabian stallion, the hair so fine and dense as to shed sweat and the sun's rays. Her lips followed her touch, and a deep rumble under her tongue made her smile. No, he was that lion after all. She thought about what he said, digesting, and her explorations stopped. He went still and tense under her.

"I see." She propped on her elbow and looked down on him. "So you didn't lure me out here with the idea to have your way with me?"

He winced. This was exactly the question for which he knew there was no good answer. Saying that he had no such plan meant that he wasn't attracted to her, or worse, he was some closeted pillow-biter who didn't know a great set of tits when he saw them. The alternative didn't sound any better; he had planned to get in her knickers all along, which made him a creeper, lying and sneaking instead of just being a man and asking her on a simple date.

But he _had_ asked her on a date. Then she had picked a fight and gotten out of it. Hadn't had her damn sole. Maybe they could drive to the coast and get her that bloody fish yet...

"Well, Gene?"

His fags were back in his room. He wanted them desperately. He turned to kiss her but she put up her hand to stop his mouth from descending on to hers.

Sighing, he settled back on the pillow. "Fine."

She waited.

"You needed a holiday. Whatever that meant."

Studying his stubborn profile, the protruding chin, set mouth, she realised he didn't know either. Laying her head on his shoulder, she remained quiet. She needed him, and he was there; that was a good enough answer.

He took her silence as anger. "Want me to clear out of here?" He started to shift off the bed.

"If you want to go—"

"I didn't say that."

"You don't seem to want to stay."

He glared down at her. "What makes you think that?"

"You're leaving." She turned on her side, away from him.

Frustrated, he glared at the back of her head. He'd show her. He lay back down and folded his arms. She rolled onto her back and crossed her arms tightly too.

He really wanted his fags, he remembered. But he wasn't going to leave now.

Perversely though, where he'd wanted just to keep his hand on her tit and go to sleep, now he needed his own answers.

"Did your rump quiver?" he asked.

She wondered if this was a Northerner's way of asking if she'd came. Considering that she'd nearly blown the thatch off the roof with her cries, she found that a bit dense of him. Then she remembered, and just slapped his belly like the big drum it was.

His triumphant chuckle made her smile ruefully. Let him have his moment of glory. He crawled out of the bed just long enough to get rid of the condom, and returned to surprise her once more, how he wanted to snuggle his big head under her chin and cradle one of her breasts, fitting his long leg between hers. It was a comfortable intimacy that gave her instant unease, but he just fell right to sleep.

Men.

But then she found herself slipping off as well. She'd been so awake—alive—just moments ago. If this was going to her death, so be it, was her last thought.

* * *

Instead, dawn came soon enough. When the spot beside her was empty, she thought perhaps it had all been yet another crazy dream within a dream. Then the smell of spent sex, his distinct odour on the pillow, made it real.

She found her dressing gown and sought him out. No place to hide in this tiny cottage.

He stood in the back doorway, leant on one side of the jamb while his bare foot propped on the other, effectively blocking any exit. He was smoking and from the pile of butts on the outer step, had been for a while. He only wore a pair of unbuttoned trousers and his black overcoat. He had to be freezing in the autumn chill.

He turned to glance her way with almost shock in his sunrise-blue eyes. He'd probably thought it had all been a dream too.

She leant on the open door, heavy and oak, its weight reassuring her, and folded her arms against the cold, both from him and the damp grass outside. "Morning," she said vaguely, when nothing else came to her.

He was looking her over slowly, from bare, pale feet, one standing on the other for that little warmth, up to her tight nipples showing through the thin satin, to finally settle on her questioning gaze.

"Did I fuck things up?" she said.

He drew deeply from his cigarette, seemingly fascinated by his own bare foot on the jamb. "You?" he muttered.

She had to look away, silly, girlie tears threatening. Whatever happened or was said in the next few minutes, something told her that she must never let him see her cry.

"By throwing myself at you," she said, picking at a scab that last night hadn't healed. "This time, you couldn't get away."

"You dozy mare," he growled, "what, I'm some prat who can't even pull a bird on me own?"

She gave a half-hearted shrug.

"You're picking a fight, Alex." He flung the burned down cigarette away. "That means I'm being tossed over."

"I just thought—working with you is really important to me." She had to take a deep breath to regain control. "And I don't think at this time...1982...that a man and woman can work together and be—" She waved a hand aimlessly toward the ceiling.

He rummaged in his pocket for his smokes, but ended up just flipping the lid back and forth on the lighter while the cigarette hung unlit from his lips. "You're a good copper, Drake. I'd hate to lose you," he finally said out of the corner of his mouth. "The job's just too damn important."

"Okay." Another gulp of air. It was hurting a bit less each time.

When he bent his head to light up, his hair fell over his brow and she fought the urge to reach out and comb it back.

Exhaling smoke through his nostrils, his gaze finally darted her way. "But I've got the rental through the weekend..."

She had to close her eyes, but that only meant her mind played a quick film of every moment last night. Yet another deep breath. "I don't think that's a good idea." If they kept at this, they'd never be able to stop.

His turn to say, "Okay," tightly.

Now she was going to say something he definitely didn't want to hear. "Thank you, Gene. For everything."

"Best go back," he said, looking out across the mist-covered garden, not at her. Probably never really look at her again. Not that way he had for the past year, that ego-boosting yearning in every glance.

She hurried away to get dressed.

* * *

The Quattro was packed, the cottage cleaned up and the key left under the mat. Gene turned on the engine but didn't pull out of the drive. Through the knuckle holes in his gloves, she could see the skin was white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly.

"Gene?" she prodded gently.

"We're still mates, right?"

Mates? She stared over at him, her mouth hanging open. He and Ray were mates! A mate...They had mated. She was his mate now...No, she would not use that term.

"Friends," she corrected and his mouth twisted in contempt at the soft southern word.

But he grumbled, "Friends then. Are we? Don't want to have fucked that up with my damn horn..."

She rolled her eyes. If it was going to do his ego better to think he was the grand seducer, so be it. "Yes. We're still friends. We'll still work together. No one has to know. I'm fine. You're fine."

He gave a short nod and finally released the clutch and the car eased forward. She studied his profile. He didn't look in her direction, but in that way she knew him every reflex, she knew that he was aware of her gaze.

"It's just that birds...Birds are that way."

He obviously had his own wounds to pick at, it would seem, Alex thought, raising her eyebrows.

"I'm not like other birds," she pointed out and that got her a very old-fashioned look shot her way.

"Too right," he muttered.

"We're friends," she repeated. It started to rain again and the beat of the wipers was a whisper of more questions and replies left unspoken between them, mile after mile.

When he finally pulled onto the motorway, she broke the silence. "Have you ever heard of friends with benefits?"

His brow furrowed with confusion. "Benefits?" He rolled the word on his tongue like he'd said 'rump' and then his faced cleared. "Benefits," he said with dawning wonder.

There. She'd put it out on the table. He could take it up in the future if he thought it could work. For once, she wasn't going to try to talk it all down into the ground. She let the subject drop, choosing to lean her head against the window and watching the raindrops streak on the glass.

Perversely, he could not. "Just..."

"Yes, Gene," she said with a sigh.

"Can I look at yo' tits one more time?" he asked, "that's a benefit, right?"

She opened her mouth to set him down, but then shrugged, reaching for her blouse buttons. She'd think of her own benefit for later.

~The End

_E/N: Thank you for the warm welcome to this ship—this universe is definitely a challenge. But I adore Gene and Alex so painfully. Time to write some fix-it fic for their ending, I say!_


End file.
